


Sweet Thing

by triedunture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Crossdressing Kink, Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We're supposed to be in the back room of the bakery to get more napkins, and Sam's probably noticed we've been gone a lot longer than we should have been, but I can't help myself. Dean just tastes too good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Thing

Title: Sweet Thing  
Author: [](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/profile)[**triedunture**](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/)  
Recipient: [](http://ivycross.livejournal.com/profile)[**ivycross**](http://ivycross.livejournal.com/)  
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel, off-screen Sam  
Genre: normal life!AU  
Warnings: Dean in lady's underwear, sex & foodstuffs, fluff, Castiel 1st person POV  
Rating: R  
Length: 1963 words  
Prompts Used: Food fight  
Summary: We're supposed to be in the back room of the bakery to get more napkins, and Sam's probably noticed we've been gone a lot longer than we should have been, but I can't help myself. Dean just tastes too good.

<><><><>

 

 

I am smiling, I realize, so hard that my jaw aches. I catch Dean's eyes, a dancing green, before noticing the thick strawberry filling that coats his palm. I duck, too late, and he smears the jam across my cheek. A laugh pierces my throat; I laugh more these days, but I'm still not used to it.

"Dean, no," I say. "We're supposed to be working. This bakery won't run itself."

"Sam's handling the customers," Dean counters. He leans forward and swipes his tongue at my face, licking up a dollop of strawberry. "Mmmm. Tastes like Cas," he says, his eyes closed in bliss.

I love him, though he does not know it yet. I have loved him at least a little ever since he walked into Angel Food Bakery to pick up his brother, saw the massive line of customers, put on an apron, and jumped behind the counter like he'd been born to do it. We'd never even spoken before; I'd only known him as Sam's older brother, his late-night ride at the end of every shift. Before I could ask Dean what he thought he was doing, he had flipped a batch of cinnamon-pear muffins out of their tins and said, "Look, you're swamped. So let me give you a hand, okay?"

That was seven months ago. Six months since I'd offered Dean a fulltime baker's position. Five since he'd kissed me on the mouth while I was wrist-deep in dough and couldn't run. Four and a half since I kissed him back. Three since I led him to my bed one night after closing, my hands shaking on the staircase railing when Dean remarked, "It'll be awesome to wake up above the shop; bet the smell is great to wake up to," because that meant he planned on staying at least for the night.

He's stayed much longer than I'd hoped. He's still here.

He's nibbling a sticky path down my throat, his breath sugar-sweet, his hands butter-soft, sliding under my shirt and flattening against my spine. I reach for the syrupy red jam on the work table that he's already dipped into, gathering it up on my fingers and slathering it down the line of his jaw.

He yelps at the sensation; the strawberry filling is cool compared to the oven-heat in the back room. He shoots me a look of reproach.

I smile. Dean makes me feel childish in a way I've never felt, not even when I was a child. "Payback," I say.

"I'll show you payback." Dean clamps his hands to my hips and spins, lifting and perching me on the edge of the work table. I do a quick inventory in my head: the strawberry filling is a lost cause, too sweet anyway (I lap some from Dean's mock-scowl to be certain), the dough rising in the large bowl is safely covered, all the other equipment is tidied away. Yes, Dean is allowed to be wicked with me on the table.

"We'll have to be quick," I warn him. "Sam might wonder where we are."

Dean waggles his eyebrows in a ridiculous vaudeville way. "Good thing I'm a fast eater." He reaches for the bowl of filling as if to dump the whole thing in my lap, and I slap his hands away.

"Focus," I tell him. "You should be fucking me, not filling up on sugar."

"Why can't I do both?" Dean lifts the apron strap over my head, letting the front drape down into my lap as he unties the strings at the small of my back. "It's not my fault everything you bake in delicious."

"Flattery is unattractive," I say, though I am preening internally at his compliment. He's eaten enough of my baked goods, even the dubious experimental ones, to make me think that he really does feel something for me. It's my belief that the things we create—art, music, food, messes—are filled with some part of who we are, and if Dean can taste me in the tarts I make for him, then I am happy. I reach for the buttons at his fly, a small smile playing on my lips.

"You know what _is_ attractive, though?" Dean asks, boxing me in with his arms on either side of me, leaning in on his tiptoes.

"What?" My fingers are still fumbling at his jeans.

Dean grins at me. "This." He shucks the denim down his hips and shows me what he's been wearing underneath.

I had thought I was done being surprised at Dean. I was wrong. There, under his jeans, are the pair of satiny purple panties I'd given him last night. I had purchased them as a gag after he'd confided in me: a late-night conversation half-muffled into pillows, a rare blush spreading across his freckled cheeks as he told the Tale of Rhonda, the girl who'd made him Try Things. Some things, he confessed, he'd liked very much. Wearing women's underwear being one.

Dean had opened the box, saw my gift laid out in the pink tissue paper, tossed them on the ground with a laugh, and sucked me off as a reward for what he considered my first real practical joke. Which wasn't a joke after all, it seems.

"You wore them all day?" I ask, cupping him through the cool purple fabric. He's hard and leaking, turning one spot dark with wetness.

Dean kisses the corner of my eye. "Driving me crazy, the way it feels on me. Feels like your hands, kind of," he says.

I don't see how that's possible. My hands are marked in places with shiny burn scars from my novice days. They're nothing like silk and lace.

My fingers draw patterns through the dampness on Dean's panties, and he hardens further, twitching as I watch.

"Can we—?" Dean raises his eyebrows in question. He means can we fuck here, in the back room amid the bags of flour and standing mixers.

"I don't know." I toss my untied apron to the floor and unbutton my shirt. "Can we?"

"I know _I_ can." Dean tackles the zipper on my jeans, shucks the denim down my thighs with one swift tug, like a magician's tablecloth. The stainless steel of the work table is cool under my ass. Dean grins. "Commando today?"

"Busy morning," I say, and kiss him again. My shirt is left hanging off my shoulders. I need him now. I can't wait. I bring him closer, my hands on his sharp hipbones, bringing him into the space between my legs, pressing his silk-covered erection against my bare one. I draw in a quick gasp of air, ducking my head to hide the flush I feel creeping up my neck to my face.

"Hot in here, huh?" Dean says, rolling his hips.

"Stop stalling and get to work," I growl. His trousers are still hanging low on his hips, and I grope through one of his pockets for the tube of lubricant I know he carries when he stays over. He pulls me nearer to the table's edge, squeezing a dollop of gel into his palm. We kiss. He touches me. I open, in time. Relax. Breathe. Remember that this is real, and though it may not be forever, I'll be damned if I can't close my eyes and pretend that Dean could feel for me what I feel for him. If pressed I think Dean might call what we have _fun_ ; we certainly laugh enough when we're together. What would I call it, besides love?

"Hey." His other hand, the one not working me open, cups my warm cheek. My eyes blink open and find his, deep green and concerned. "You went far away. You all right?"

I swallow. Dean deserves my full attention. I shouldn't let these ridiculous thoughts ruin our time together. "Everything's fine." I grab the tube from where it's laying on the table and tug Dean's panties to the side, letting his cock spring free. I slick him up the way he likes, thumb rubbing under the ridge of the head. He tips his chin down against his chest and groans.

"Everything's fine," he sighs. His fingers retreat, and his dick nudges against me. I'm teetering on the very edge of the table now. The only thing keeping me from falling are his hands, one on my hip, one under my thigh. I crook one leg around his waist as he presses in, slow, slow, always so slow. I watch a bead of sweat run from his hairline down his neck to disappear into his shirt. My hands are on his shoulders, and he trembles under my touch. He must be holding back for my benefit, so I say, "Go ahead. Fuck me."

He presses forward until the bunched satin of his panties is flush with the crease of my thigh and the weight of my balls. It feels so good, like he's somehow licking me there while fucking me. I close my eyes and cling to his shoulders. I had lost some of my hardness to introspection and penetration, but it's back again, my cock harder than ever.

"Still covered in sugar," Dean breathes. He runs his tongue across my chin, his hips finding a steady beat into me. "My sweet thing," he says, and I clench at the new endearment. He hisses. "Goddamn. Do that again?"

I do, and he bites down where my neck meets my shoulder. We're curled around each other now, Dean pounding into me while I try to meet his thrusts with what little leverage I have. The table legs squeak alarmingly on the tile floor but I don't care. Sam could walk in, all our customers could walk in for that matter, and I wouldn't be able to let go of Dean's over-heated body, seated perfectly in the V of my legs.

I drop a hand down to the waistband of his lacy panties, tugging at them, gathering the fabric in my fist, forcing the elastic to bite into his skin. He groans again, helpless, his rhythm faltering. He's close, I can tell. I realize with a start that I am too.

"Dean," I say, strangled into the hollow of his throat. He knows that sound, takes it upon himself to finish me off. He works both hands underneath my ass, lifting me entirely off the table, and I'm in his hands now, utterly in his grasp, being worked up and down on his cock. My erection is trapped against his stomach, pressed tight and rubbed frantically. The panty elastic snaps out of my hand and I come, eyes shut tight, arms wrapped around his neck.

I feel him come in me as I'm riding the aftershocks. Obscene wetness between my legs, pattering onto the toes of his work boots. Oh god. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I love him and I'm choking on it, trying not to say the words.

But Dean—he will never stop surprising me, I suppose.

"Love you, you crazy son of a bitch," he says into my ear. He holds me there, still impaled on his cock, legs and arms wrapped around him, a mess. "Love you," he repeats, kissing my temple. I drop my head to his shoulder.

I realize I'm smiling again. But there is no more ache.

 

 

 

 

fin  



End file.
